I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

My grandfather was one of those grandfathers that sang in the house.

Full-throated bluesy songs about bad luck and trouble.

Songs about helpless love and beautiful women.

He sang to no one, yet he projected as if to an audience at a grand concert hall.

Every day, every day I have the blues, he crooned.

Will you see me worry in, baby?

Yes, you I hate to lose.

When I was not yet a teenager, he took me to see the blues singer, B.B. King.

On stage, King told the story of playing a small nightclub in Twist, Arkansas, early in his career.

A fight broke out between two men causing a fire. The great musician ran into the flames to retrieve

his Gibson guitar. He named it Lucille, after the woman the men were fighting over, as a reminder

to never risk his life, much like the trope of the face that launched the thousand ships.

I did not appreciate the depth of emotions behind the songs my grandfather sang, until one morning

when I arrived early to high school for track practice, to see my crush, holding hands with my best friend.

I could have sung a hundred blues songs and would have felt none the better.

But I came to understand something about love.

We are creatures with wild hearts. We hurt to the core when done wrong.

The ones we love may not love us back. Still, very little satiates our appetite for companionship

and affection. And thus, we are vulnerable, prone to passionate behavior,

from loyalty to fierce protection, from devotion to possession. From the outside, such emotions

might appear irrational, but it always makes for fiery art.

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